The Maiden Hand
by Fearful Warrior
Summary: After the end of the war, what becomes of Westeros?


**Brienne, 9 years after the Battle of Three Hills**

1316 words

Brienne's felt her hand slicing open as she gripped the Iron Throne. The singer in the corner was barely loud enough for her to hear over the murmur in the line of supplicants, but she knew the song well enough. It had not been six moon's turns after the day before she had heard "The Two Golden Lions"in a winesink near the River Gate. Two months beyond that and it was heard nigh as often as "The Rains of Castamere"or "The Bear and Maiden Fair."And now, even two winters later, she could not yet bear to hear it.

It was not that she loved Jaime, she thought. Her thoughts trailed over Ser Hyle, as lightly as a spiderweb, enough to let her relax her grip on the throne. It was simply that Ser Hyle was here, though Jaime was not. Besides, what should a knight of the Kingsguard know of love?

"Ser? What is your voice on the matter?"Podrick Payne's deep drew her from her thoughts. Jaime had showered him with accolades for bravery after the Battle of Three Hills. He'd been knighted then as well, and had seemed to grow into manhood nearly by the next morn. Still, there was something of his boyhood loyalty in the way he never seemed to leave her side. King Tommen was indisposed today. He claimed to be hunting, but Brienne was almost certain she'd heard his laughs among the shrieks and giggles of his daughters emanating from his solar in Maegor's Holdfast. She was not angered. The lad deserved his happiness, and the job of the Hand was to help lift the burden of rule.

Brienne dispensed judgment—it was a simple matter, just a farmer refusing to pay for a sheep he had purchased—and caught the last refrain of the song before the singer packed his lute away and strode out. The hall was emptying;

She remembered another day in the throne room. Tommen was still just the beardless boy king, Cersei was still scheming softly from her tower, and Jaime had sent for Brienne. He had served for less than a month, but already he was called The Handless Hand. He had told her he wasn't sure if he preferred it to Kingslayer, saying while it was less malicious, it also lacked the simple poetry of Kingslayer. She had barely smiled at that. She had been at a loss since the battle. In a way, she almost missed how the snow had melted on her clothes, then frozen, then melted again. Her room in the Red Keep was too fine, the bed too soft, her clothes too smooth. She missed the roughness of the frozen air against her lungs and feeling as though she could be of use.

Jaime's hair fell across his eye, hiding the scar where he had been cut before she could break away to his side. Even lefthanded, he was formidable with a sword, but without a proper shield, he was no match for the direwolf. The wolf had lunged at his throat, but he ducked, crying out as the wolf's fangs ripped his skin. Brienne had swiped at it with Oathkeeper, red against black, but it had just growled and bounded back to his master's side. Brienne's fingers twitched. She longed to brush the hair aside and kiss the scar so gently, but instead she knelt.

"Brienne, do you know why I called for you?"he asked her.

"Do you mean to send me back to Tarth?"she asked, softly. She'd often wondered of late whether she would be able to see her home. The Evenstar had died while they were camped against the frozen hills. In her heart she'd wondered, the day she left to join Renly's retainers, whether she'd see the face of her father again. When the raven arrived, weeks later at King's Landing, she could not say she was surprised. Her family was nothing if not insistent on beating her into the grave. She'd never asked to go home. The peace had felt so tangible, so fragile then that she'd hardly dared to breathe heavily, in case that would break the calm. But now, things were safe, although to Brienne safety just felt hollow and useless. The North King and Queen of Dragons had fallen to their respective homes to lick their wounds or celebrate, she was not quite sure, but for now the air was quiet.

"Is that what you wish to do, my lady?"he asked, brows furrowing slightly.

She shook her head. "My house is well cared for. I have no need to return to it."

Jaime let out a bit of a laugh, although Brienne had no idea what he found amusing. He leaned back, and folded one knee across the other. Brienne had heard stories about the fall of the mad king, and tried to picture the Kingslayer sitting on the iron throne, cocksure, seventeen and confident naught would ever harm him. Instead she saw a haggard man at the end of his prime, scarred, ill-used, and with a golden hand where one of flesh and blood should be. "I've a mind to add you to the Kingsguard,"he said.

Brienne, unsure if he was japing, let out a derisive snort.

"What? Is the position not to your liking? You've had practice since your last attempt at guarding a king."He said it with a light heart, but Brienne still felt the familiar ache whenever Renly was mentioned, even yet.

"One must needs be a knight to join the Kingsguard,"she said softly.

Jaime handed her a sheet of parchment with Tommen's name inked carefully along the bottom and stamped with his seal. "Luckily, I already thought of that."

Brienne read it and felt strange at how unimportant it seemed. What she had wished for her entire life was now in her grasp, but what of the things she hadn't known she'd wanted? She pushed the thought out of her mind, and smiled through her crooked teeth.

"Will I have to spend the night in the sept?"she asked.

"No need,"said Jaime, drawing his sword. "Any knight may make a knight."

And so Brienne donned the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Was it months or weeks or days they had together, members of the elite guard? But it did not last.

In her heart, Brienne was glad she never saw it, the tangled mess of twin and blood and golden hair. Everyone claimed to know the reason for their demise, but no consensus was ever reached. Whether it was for power, money, or treachery, all that was known for sure was that Jaime Lannister had choked his sister to death with his left hand, and that she had clawed his throat open.

And now it was a song. Brienne recalled a younger, child version of herself telling Catelyn Stark that she wished to be in song where all maids are beautiful. They stopped calling her the beauty, even in jest, once her painful scar from Biter had healed. Myrcella had japed that they were a matched set, she and her. Myrcella had managed to keep most of her Lannister good looks through painstakingly planned hairstyles and some strange dust Margaery acquired from the free cities. Brienne discovered the song about herself, "The Scarred Witch-Maiden of the Sapphire Isle,"when Ser Hyle tried bravely to hide it from her. But she wasn't safe from those who despised her, not even in song.

She sat alone in the empty throne room, pressing her thumb against the palm of her hand to stop the bleeding, wondering how she ever wished to be a song. She'd expected to go down fighting, protecting Renly, who was more than worthy of the memory. But it was not to be. The nights of summer had come and gone and left her standing, if not whole.


End file.
